


you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones

by fridaygrimm



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M, adam parrish swearing, canon character death, death and the aftermath, i definitely don't know what i'm doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 19:06:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6578761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fridaygrimm/pseuds/fridaygrimm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ronan organises Kavinsky's funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones

**Author's Note:**

> This is irenebean's fault. So it's only fair that she had to beta it. Any further mistakes are my own damn fault (or deliberate defiance).

Kavinsky kisses him first.

It’s somewhere in between the pills and the booze and Ronan’s not certain of much. Maybe they’re in the car and maybe they’re on the hood but Kavinsky kisses him first. That’s what he’s sure of.

He’s equally sure that he shoves Kavinsky back with sluggish hands and maybe the door is open behind him or maybe they’re already outside because Kavinsky goes tumbling back and away and the next thing Ronan knows he’s crawling after him, cursing his body with each harsh, panting breath, fisting a hand in Kavinsky’s shirt to yank him back in again. They tumble onto the scorched grass of the clearing together, hit the earth hard. Their teeth collide and Ronan tastes blood.

He sits back up to wipe it away, looking down at Kavinsky between his thighs. Kavinsky, who props himself up on his elbows, licks the blood from his own teeth and spits it onto Ronan’s shirt. Then he reaches back up to yank Ronan down in turn.

It’s more like fighting than kissing should be (though Ronan doesn’t have a wealth of personal experience to draw on). They roll a few times, each trying to pin the other in a lazy sort of way. He comes out on top and Kavinsky wriggles under him, like he’s getting comfortable. Like he meant to end up there the whole time. 

Ronan’s fingers twitch as Kavinsky reaches up, adjusting those stupid sunglasses. He wants to break them. He wants to carefully take them off and see Kavinsky’s eyes. He doesn’t. Instead he leans down and kisses him again and again, trying to drown out the rising knowledge that this is a dream, this is a dream and Joseph Kavinsky is alive under his hands and he knows exactly how he feels, he feels real, he feels real and.

Ronan opens his eyes alone in his bed.

He slams around the main room, Monmouth empty except for Chainsaw squawking overhead. She settles when he heads for the door, swooping down to take up residence on his shoulder, rides quietly all the way to the car.

It’s cool, but in a way that promises to be scorching later. Not proper weather for a funeral, more the kind of weather for bodies left to spoil.

Ronan drives to the church.

He can’t imagine Kavinsky was much for religion, except the strange one he built for himself with cars and fire and dangerous dreams. But a funeral is a funeral and there wasn’t anyone else left to put one together. And there’s only one way Ronan knows to do it.

He parks in the empty street, transfers Chainsaw down to his wrist as he heads towards the building.

He doesn’t stumble, but there’s the faintest hitch in his step when he spots the two people waiting outside. Matthew is there, looking radiant even with the fading bruises and a strip of gauze taped to his forehead underneath his golden curls. And beside him, a little way back in the shadows, is Adam.

Maybe he’s still dreaming.

Adam lifts a hand in greeting, watching Ronan approach a little warily. Matthew, of course, jogs forward to hug him immediately.

‘You didn’t have to come,’ Ronan mutters to him, the unspoken question thrumming through him. Matthew squeezes him tighter. The fact that he’s there out of the goodness of his heart and not to make sure Kavinsky’s really dead hovers around them. It makes Ronan feel strange. There’s definitely a part of him that’s here to make sure Kavinsky is really dead.

Adam doesn’t come forward, he waits for Ronan to come to him. So Ronan comes, with Matthew on one side and Chainsaw perched on the other shoulder like an entourage and his heart thumping in his chest.

‘They told me there was going to be a funeral,’ Adam says. Ronan shrugs. Adam nods.

Apparently that’s that, because they go inside.

Adam lives here, Ronan keeps reminding himself. Adam lives behind the church. He probably makes awkward conversation with the nuns every morning on his way out. They’re probably not even unnerved by the way he stares into and through a person. Anyone who’s willing to spend that much time under the sightless eyes of Christ is made of stronger stuff.

Apparently Ronan’s not.

He can feel Adam’s eyes on him through the funeral. Through the service, which is in Latin. Through the hymns, which only Matthew sings, though all three of them stand.

He feels them particularly strongly at the end, when he goes up to the casket. He doesn’t touch it. He doesn’t leave a token. He doesn’t know what to leave. It’s too late for yes, too late to choose with you. Ronan Lynch on Kavinsky’s side was never going to be. And anything else seems inadequate.

Somehow, afterwards, they end up in Adam’s room.

‘I bought you something,’ Adam says, ducking down to reach under the bed. Ronan does not stare at his arse. Then Adam pulls out a cooler and glances up at Ronan before opening it to reveal a six pack of beer and Ronan does stare.

Adam doesn’t drink. They all know exactly why and they never talk about it and even though Adam doesn’t drink he bought Ronan’s brand of beer.

Ronan doesn’t ask questions, but he tears his gaze away from the alcohol and fixes it on Adam, who shrugs.

‘I never said thank you,’ he says awkwardly. ‘For the rent.’

Ronan closes his eyes. Then he opens them again and flops to sit down, his back against Adam’s bed. His legs stretched out almost hit the opposite wall. Chainsaw gives an offended squawk and leaps off his shoulder, settling on the bedpost. Adam’s facial expression is roughly equivalent to the sound.

‘Well?’ Ronan asks, reaching out and pulling the six pack towards him, breaking it open with his hands. ‘Are you waiting for an invitation?’ Adam sits down carefully, crossing his legs in his stupid stuffy trousers. Ronan watches him from the corner of his eye as he pulls out the first bottle. He pauses with it in his hands.

Adam’s watching him with something like a challenge in his eyes.

Ronan opens the bottle and takes a swig.

Halfway through his second bottle, Adam suddenly seems a lot closer.

‘It was never going to happen,’ Ronan says, or thinks he says.

‘I know,’ Adam tells him.

Another half a bottle and he can feel Adam’s shoulder bumping against his. He can feel the way Adam’s arm moves, ever so slightly, when he breathes.

The third bottle, lukewarm and unappetising, label starting to peel off where the ice has melted into water in the open cooler. Adam’s fingers curl around his when the bottle begins to tilt. It takes him a moment to realise Adam’s taking it from his hand. It takes longer to lift his head and by the time he has it’s almost to Adam’s lips.

He has to fight the urge to grab Adam’s wrist and in the process his fingers curl into fists.

‘You don’t have to,’ he says, and it comes out so even, despite the shudder of his heart in his chest.

‘But I want to,’ Adam says, and he lifts the bottle, throat long as he swallows and swallows. Ronan doesn’t look at the line his throat makes, doesn’t look at the way the skin works over muscle, doesn’t look at Adam’s mouth pressed against the bottle’s.

‘Fuck,’ Adam spits as he lowers the bottle. He lifts it to stare at the meagre remaining contents suspiciously. Ronan is staring as well, ears burning with the way Adam’s half-hidden accent curls around the swear-word. ‘That tastes awful,’ Adam says to the world at large.

Ronan laughs, and like a wracking cough it hurts a little on the way out of his chest, burns his throat as he reaches out to pull the bottle from Adam’s hand.

‘Well find something that doesn’t,’ he tells him, taking a swig before he notices the way Adam’s still looking at him, has been looking at him since he started laughing. The last shocks of the laughter die out and he licks his lips. Adam’s gaze drops. Ronan’s heart kicks again and he’s already lowering the bottle when Adam shifts forward on his knees, grips his wrist with those clever fingers and pulls it away.

They stare for a long moment and then Ronan’s the one leaning in to close the distance. Ronan’s the one kissing first.

It’s awkward, Adam’s grip on his wrist, the almost-empty bottle out to the side of them, Adam’s body curled over his. The kiss itself is almost off-kilter, all Adam’s determined mouth and Ronan’s gone shock-loose. Adam starts to pull away.

Ronan puts the bottle down carefully and reaches out. His fingertips jitter in the air and Adam stops. Ronan touches his cheek, the hard bone of his clenched jaw, and draws him back in.

The second kiss is better. Ronan turns towards Adam, one elbow propped on the bed, and tugs him closer and closer in increments. Until Adam’s kneeling between his legs, knees brushing the scuffed denim on Ronan’s inner thighs. Until he can lift the hand from the bed and touch Adam’s neck, slide it up the other side of his jaw, clench it in his hair.

By the time his grip pulls them apart, panting for breath, they’re well past the second kiss. There’s a flush high on Adam’s cheeks, darkening the skin under the freckles. Ronan’s fingers are still trembling when he retrieves them from the back of Adam’s head.

Adam gives him that look that breaks through him like a sword and undoes the top few buttons on his shirt, shrugging out of it. Ronan stares at the white t-shirt underneath, then it too is gone and he’s left with a slender expanse of skin and Adam’s rib cage trying to press its way out with every breath. He reaches out to touch and they’re kissing again.

Moving to the bed is obvious and it’s so small they only fit piled on top of each other, which Ronan is not objecting to with Adam’s narrow hips pressing him down into the mattress. He loses his own shirt and everything feels more intimate with the skin of his chest brushing Adam’s with every breath.

When Adam pulls back there’s something determined in his eyes that makes Ronan stop him.

‘What?’ Adam asks, bewildered, just a little bit hostile. Ronan’s possibly never been more attracted to him and it takes a lot to topple Adam to the side, shuffling back until his own back is pressed to the wall and he and Adam are facing each other.

‘You don’t have to do this,’ he says. Adam’s eyes search his face and for a second he’s not sure Adam’s going to believe him.

‘I know,’ Adam says. Outside Ronan can practically hear the sun baking down, surrounding their little sanctuary. Outside they’re burying an empty casket for a boy like him, who burnt himself up. Outside, somewhere, Cabeswater and Glendower and the nebulous future are waiting.

Inside there’s only him and Adam and a half-drunk six pack. Adam’s hand finds his in the narrow space between them on the covers. He hears Adam take a breath.

‘I know,’ he repeats. ‘But I want to.’


End file.
